


let me

by Blake



Series: 30 Days of Depeche Mode Bagginshield ficlets [15]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Cuddling, Established Relationship, F/F, Service Top Thorin, anyways I just want to write the same things over and over again, fat happy lesbians, how, is that really not a tag??, oh ok so it is a tag, that only my wife and I have used lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:46:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25099375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: Many dwarves find their greatest pleasure in rendering beautiful things with the work of their hands.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Series: 30 Days of Depeche Mode Bagginshield ficlets [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1705147
Comments: 8
Kudos: 54





	let me

Bilbo is still fluttering around her fingers and twitching under her tongue, but Thorin can tell she has already dozed off. Thorin smiles to herself, pulling back to rest her cheek against the soft pillow of Bilbo’s thigh. Sweet little pulses of thick fluid push out into her hand as Bilbo softens to total relaxation around her. Thorin withdraws her fingers, hungrily touching every puffy, plush surface her fingertips pass on their way out, like so many facets of a well-worked jewel. She spreads her wet hand across ginger curls, pushing them against the grain and wetting them, parting her open for one last look and basking in the incredible fire-like heat radiating onto her face.

She scrubs her face against Bilbo’s thigh, marveling at the doughy softness under the textures of her beard and her swollen lips. Her hand continues its journey, spreading out across the gentle creases of Bilbo’s stomach. Thorin is certain she will never feel worthy of such sweetness as the sweetness in her very hands. Even after several months of living together, she cannot believe she gets to touch the delicate dimple of the hobbit’s cheek, let alone that she gets to make her come apart time after time in their shared bed. Thorin will always be the hard, bitter dwarf who tried to turn herself to stone for the sake of her people but who crumbled under the pressure and scattered like boulders to crush everyone she loved; Bilbo will always be the warm, genuine fire who can withstand any hardship and melt powdered rock back into a shape worth keeping.

A tear gathers at the corner of Thorin’s eye, so moved is she by the utter trust written across Bilbo’s body. So open, even in sleep. So willing to be seen, so eager to climax over and over again under Thorin’s dedicated attentions. Bilbo, who, in polite company, hides all her honest opinions behind layers of backhanded compliments and facetious negativity, who never goes out to market in Hobbiton with so much as a strip of forearm showing at the cuff of her charmingly queer starched shirts, and who cries even less frequently than she freely laughs—that very same hobbit falls asleep with her legs spread, still full of Thorin’s fingers after being brought to screaming climax seven times. Thorin, who once went so mad she almost hurt the love of her life and thought she could never be forgiven the crime of so losing control to such madness, is in a state of perpetual awe.

The tear must fall onto Bilbo’s skin, for she suddenly stirs from her light slumber, stomach heaving under Thorin’s touch as she takes a ragged, orienting breath. Thorin looks up to see lake-deep blue eyes blinking in the evening light. “You’re crying,” Bilbo accuses.

Thorin exhales in laughter. Her breath sends Bilbo’s legs twitching and drawing closer around Thorin’s head, trapping and pulling strands of her hair. “Only because you are so beautiful,” Thorin confesses, voice muffled by her own hair and Bilbo’s thigh.

Bilbo makes a decisively dismissive sound. She often expresses, in one way or another, that Thorin is ridiculous.

It only takes one gesture from Bilbo’s delicate hand to get Thorin to disentangle her hair from the sticky places where their bodies meet and heave herself up to the stack of pillows beneath that head of copper curls. It’s difficult to refrain from pulling Bilbo right into her arms and onto her chest, but the effort is rewarded by the amusing sight of Bilbo moving so very sluggishly in dogged, yet sleepy, pursuit of Thorin’s embrace. “You put a sleeping spell on me,” Bilbo says once her mouth is pressed sloppily against Thorin’s breast.

Thorin snorts, filled to the brim with the feeling of being the happiest person in the whole world. “I may have done many things to you, but I cannot take credit for making a hobbit sleep, just as I cannot take credit for making you hungry.”

Right on time, Bilbo’s stomach growls between them, the vibration of it visible even in the thick of Thorin’s middle. She looks up at the ceiling with a grin, not needing to see the pink spreading across Bilbo’s bare cheek to know it is there. Bilbo sighs with heft and drama. She squeezes Thorin as best she can and her wet mouth drags soothingly across the fine hairs on Thorin’s chest. “Well, I cannot take credit for anything at all,” Bilbo laments, seeming to attempt to bury herself in the fold beneath one of Thorin’s large, heavy breasts while her hand finds the other and holds fast. She sounds seconds away from falling back to sleep.

“You can take credit for bringing me the greatest pleasure I could wish for,” Thorin murmurs, running her cleaner set of fingers through Bilbo’s hair.

After a moment, Bilbo raises her head, pressing the back of it against Thorin’s palm and meeting her eyes with a narrow gaze. “But, I didn’t—I haven’t even—”

Thorin is not sure if it’s drowsiness or hobbit-ish modesty rendering Bilbo incapable of finishing her sentence, but she understands her meaning well enough, as they’ve had this conversation more than once. “You must know by now that many dwarves find their greatest pleasure in rendering beautiful things with the work of their hands.” Even as she says it, Thorin’s hands twitch for more work, her stomach plummeting in a way she suspects shows in her eyes, if the shifting, wakening darkness in Bilbo’s is any indication.

Bilbo sputters in an attempt to say something, but her stomach rumbles more loudly, and Thorin’s greatest pleasure is attending to the needs of Bilbo’s body. She gently lays Bilbo onto the bed and stands to dress in the simplest, nearest tunic, eager to finish up supper and feed her hobbit.


End file.
